Death of an Innocent
by FFcrazy15
Summary: After a bad day in the OR, Hawkeye loses his temper with Fr. Mulcahy. In the process, both learn a little about forgiveness and faith. Rated T for cursing. F*L*O*C*K 4077 piece.


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended.

***A/N: WARNING! Some cursing.**

**M*A*S*H**

It was in blood-soaked scrubs and with aching feet- and hearts- that the senior medical staff of the 4077th stumbled wearily into the changing room. Too exhausted for mourning and too saddened for drinking, the four doctors, the head nurse and one clerk slumped onto the stools and benches, not bothering to get undressed.

"Damn," B.J. said finally. "That's about the worst session I think I've ever seen."

"Seconded," Klinger muttered. "I carried more kids today than I think I've ever met in my life."

A village nearby had been heavily bombed in the fighting, including a Korean children's school. Child after child had come into the OR, full of shrapnel and bullets that no six-year-old should even know about.

Hawkeye said nothing, choosing instead to stare at the wall. Something hot and angry was brewing inside him, bubbling in his stomach. He'd watched his knife cut into a little girl, not even seven years old. And it hadn't been enough. She'd been so small; just an innocent, guiltless child. He couldn't get her face out of his mind.

_Someone needs to pay,_ he thought savagely. _Someone is going to pay. Someone should have stopped this war by now. How could anyone see this sort of awfulness and not step in?_

The door opened, but he didn't look over, still glaring at the wall as if he could burn holes in it. Fr. Mulcahy slumped wearily against the laundry baskets, the edges of his stole soaked in blood, one glove off and his thumb coated in oil. After a long moment, he closed his eyes and began to murmur a prayer he knew all too well. _"Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them.."_

As the words reached Hawkeye's ears and began to swirl around in his head, he found himself growing angrier. How _could_ someone who had the power to stop things not do so? How _could_ a God who was supposed to be merciful let children die in pain? It wasn't fair. It wasn't goddamn right.

"Father, stop."

The words were out of his mouth before he knew he'd spoken them. Mulcahy looked over, surprised, the words _rest in peace_ stuttering to a halt. "Hawkeye?"

"I said stop," the surgeon said, pushing himself off the bench. "Don't waste your breath, Father. It's not like He gives a damn anyway."

"Hawkeye, I know it's been a hard day, but-"

"Hard day?" he demanded. "Children _died_ in there, Father! Kids! They wouldn't _have_ to rest in peace if they weren't _dead_ in the first place!"

"Pierce!" Margaret snapped.

"You stay out of this, Margaret! Look around you, Father! You think He cares? Bullshit! He doesn't care and He never has!"

"Hawkeye, please…" the priest said helplessly.

"Why?" Hawkeye said mockingly. "What're you going to do, huh? Hit me? Not a very priestly thing to do, is it?"

"I-"

"Go on! Hit me, I dare you!" he baited recklessly. "Oh, I forgot, you're a goddamn _coward_ who hides behind his beads and Bible and 'turn the other cheek's! Tell me this, Father, if your precious God is so 'loving' and 'merciful,' then why does He let innocent kids die, huh? Why?!"

The priest stared back, stunned. Tears lined the lower lid of his eyes. "I… I don't know."

"WELL THAT'S NOT DAMN GOOD ENOUGH!" he roared, slamming his fist down onto the laundry cart.

A shocked silence filled the room. "Well I'm sorry Hawkeye," Mulcahy said finally, voice quavering. "But it's the best I've got."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, before the priest turned and walked out of the room.

The door closed behind him, leaving the rest of the room to sit in silence. After a moment, Margaret stood up. "I hope you're happy, Pierce," she seethed. "You just made the best man in this camp feel utterly worthless and humiliated, all for your little pity party. Well I hope it was worth it." She stormed out of the room.

One by one, the others silently followed suit. He looked around at them. "Colonel? Klinger?" He turned to the last. "Beej, come on."

The other doctor shook his head and walked away, leaving the surgeon to stand there in the changing room alone.

**M*A*S*H**

He approached the door nervously, the crickets chirruping around him. For a moment, he thought about turning and heading back, before he steeled his will and raised a fist.

The knock was quieter than he meant it to be, so when nobody answered, he tried again, that time louder. After yet another lack of response, he said, "Father? You in there?"

There was a long moment of silence, so long in fact that he was about to turn away, before he heard a quiet, "Come in, Hawkeye."

He gritted his teeth and opened the door hesitantly. Fr. Mulcahy's head was ducked; he appeared to be reading his book of night prayers.

Hawkeye cleared his throat awkwardly. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Go ahead."

He took a seat uncomfortably in the chair usually used for confessions. A long moment passed, before Mulcahy said tiredly, "What do you want, Hawkeye?"

"I want to apologize. I acted like an ass in there, and I-" He swallowed his pride. "I'm sorry."

With a sigh, the priest closed the book and looked up. His eyes were red; clearly, he'd been crying. "I just don't know what you expect of me, Hawkeye. I'm a priest, not a miracle worker. The two aren't necessarily synonymous."

He nodded, not meeting the man's eyes. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"You think I don't understand the horror of this place?" Mulcahy demanded, getting to his feet. "You think I'm not as- as lonely and angry and hurt as the rest of you? Or maybe it's too difficult for you to even imagine that somebody might give a damn about tomorrow!"

"That's not-"

"Well forgive me for finding some sort of hope in life, but I'm not about give it up because it will fit your perfect construct of bitterness and cynicism! It's hard enough keeping faith out here without you tearing it down! Nobody comes to church, nobody goes to confessions, nobody so much as says a word of prayer. It's enough to make any man doubt himself, and then you come in swinging and decide you'll just add to the load! But I'll be damned if I let someone like you cause me to give up the one thing holding me together in this hell, so you can take your bitterness and resentment and GET OUT!"

There was a long, awkward silence, before Mulcahy said in a soft, trembling voice, "Good God, what have I done?" He sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I- I'm so sorry, Hawkeye, I don't know what came over me. Forgive me, please. I- I let myself become cruel and downright hateful in my anger… I'm so ashamed…"

"Don't be," Hawkeye said, shaking his head. "I deserved it."

"No, no… you came in here to apologize and all I did was scream and rant." His voice was filled with guilt. "Everything you said in the changing room was true. I'm a coward who can't even give a decent homily on Sunday, let alone get someone to believe. I'm a terrible priest and I know it."

"That's not true," Hawkeye answered forcefully. "Look, just about everyone in this camp is half-dead, trying to numb the pain. Drinking, gambling, sleeping around… You're trying to deal with it decently and I sure as hell didn't help in there." He swallowed. "I just - I couldn't do anything, okay? I was watching those kids die and there was nothing I could do, and I was so- so _goddamn scared._" He ground his teeth, a burn beginning to grow behind his eyes. "I was so terrified and I hate myself for that, hate myself for not being able to do anything… and when you started praying, I snapped."

Almost instantly, all vestiges of anger or sadness left the priest's face, as if someone had thrown a switch to put him back into a working state of mind. He leaned towards the surgeon and said gently, "Would you like to talk about it?"

"…I don't know why today hit me as hard as it did," Hawkeye said, shaking his head in sad confusion. "Maybe it was because they were so young, or because there were so many… but when those kids kept dying in front of me, I was furious with myself and God and- and whoever else should have saved them. I guess I jumped you 'cause there wasn't anything else I could do, and I hated that you could." He shook his head, anger and sadness mixing in his voice. "Why does He let this happen? If He really cares, then why doesn't He do something? Why didn't He save those kids tonight?"

Fr. Mulcahy shook his head. "I wish I knew, Hawkeye, I really do. I- I don't know why innocents have to die for this war. I don't know why anyone does."

There was an uncomfortable pause, before the surgeon nodded towards the prayer book. "Care if I join you?"

The priest nodded, a little surprised, and moved over to make room. Hawkeye got up and sat down beside him on the cot.

"You know the responses?"

"No."

"Just listen then, if you like." He started the prayers again.

It was about halfway through that Hawkeye noticed the priest's eyes were wet again, liquid gathering in the corners and leaving a ring under each eye. Yet, although he was crying, and although he was clearly sad, there was a certain calmness about his sorrow. He wasn't desperate or angry or bitter. He was just sad. In a strange way, Hawkeye was fascinated; he hadn't felt 'just sad' in a long time.

When they were done, the surgeon said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Why do you trust Him so much?"

Mulcahy thought for a long, long moment, and then said, "…You asked me why innocents have to die, Hawkeye. All I know is that… one of those innocents died in my place. Would you trust someone like that?"

Hawkeye looked away. "Guess I would."

The priest gave a small, sad smile. "I'll see you in the OR tomorrow, Hawkeye. Get some rest."

The surgeon smiled back. It wasn't a happy smile- in fact, it was closer to a grimace- but it was progress. "Thanks. G'night, Father. And I'm sorry again."

"Don't worry about it. Good night, Hawkeye. God bless."

As the door shut to his tent, he looked down at the crucifix around his neck and sighed. On days like this, when it was all too tempting to succumb to hate- hate towards the North Koreans, the Army, even God-, something always came a long that forced him to remember what he was guilty of, that he was no more sinless than the rest.

He, too, had caused the death of an Innocent.


End file.
